Chapter Text
July 25th, 1996, 5:32 A.M.
Flashing lights. Green. Red. Blue. Someone is standing next to him. A memory, a shadow, a ghost. He can’t see him. He can’t see him, but he knows exactly who it is. He can almost see his long black hair - was it really that long? How is it possible to forget when he is reminded of it every night? - his smug grin - he’d just hexed Malfoy, or Crabbe, or Mulciber, he wasn’t sure - his grey eyes, somehow still bright with mischief, looking straight into his own. “Nice one, James.” But he wasn’t James, he would never be James, because James wouldn’t have let his best friend die. He would have gone to Dumbledore, or the Order. He wouldn’t have gone to the Ministry of Magic, alone and vulnerable and naive. I killed him. I killed him. IkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkilledhimIkill-
Harry woke with a gasp, his shirt drenched in sweat, his hand gripping his wand tightly. Taking a ragged breath, he propped himself up on his elbows, and drained the glass he had started setting on his bedside table every night, feeling the cold water wash the dryness in his throat away.
It had become a daily routine by then, he would fall asleep -as late as possible-, wake up a few hours later, practically soaked, breathe, drink, and try to forget.
He glanced at the framed picture of his parents, dancing and laughing and ignorant of the fact that this would be one of their last happy memories, and he thought, what would they think if they saw me now?
Harry knew he couldn’t let grief or sorrow overwhelm him, not when the Ministry had finally accepted that Voldemort was back, not when the mysterious attacks multiplied and multiplied, reaching even the muggles. Yet he couldn’t keep the nightmares at bay, day or night.
However, the worst dreams weren’t the ones about him, they were the old ones, the ones of dark corridors and locked doors, the ones that reminded him just how much could have been avoided if he’d simply told his friends, or Sirius, or even Remus about them. If he hadn’t been stupid enough to believe he could handle it all.
He shook his head, clearing those thoughts. Sighing, he pushed his old blanket away, got out of bed and threw some clothes and a light jacket. He’d been taking morning walks for a while now, and the Dursleys hadn’t noticed yet, as he always came back before 7. Not that they really cared anymore since the Dementors’ attack.
He carefully made his way down the stairs and out of the house, stepping into the silent Privet Drive. He closed his eyes and inhaled the crisp morning air. Something about the silence, the privacy, and the rising sun made everything so… peaceful. But Harry wasn’t exactly an expert in peace, so who knew what that feeling really was.
He made his way down the street, his hands in his pockets and his head down, letting his body lead him wherever it wanted to go. At that point, he knew the neighborhood like the back of his hand, as for the last two years, exploring it had been his only escape.
He’d been walking for a few minutes when he finally looked up and saw the name of the street he’d turned into: Magnolia Crescent. He almost wanted to laugh as he turned around and looked at the garage where he’d first “met” Sirius. He had somehow managed to avoid coming here since he got back from Hogwarts, but he should’ve known it would be inevitable. The spraypainted eyes on the door of the garage - a new addition, Harry couldn’t recall seeing them that night - almost seemed to be glaring at him, a harsh reminder of everything that had changed since his third year.
He stared at the garage for a few minutes, a strange sensation growing in his chest as time passed, before finally turning back and walking quickly back to number four. He didn’t have the energy for this.
But of course, the universe hated him, and when he arrived home, he was gifted with the sight of a large horned owl perched on his uncle’s car, waiting for him.
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Dear Mr Potter,
Firstly, we would like to present our sincerest condolences for the tragic loss of your godfather, and we would like to remind you that he has been cleared of all charges, on account of yours and Albus Dumbledore’s testimonies.
It has been brought to our attention that his death was caused by the Veil, in the Death Chamber, part of the Department of Mysteries. As you may already know, our Unspeakable agents have been studying the structure for a considerable time, and have not been able to truly understand anything about it.
It is why we saw fit to require your presence at a short meeting on Thursday, August 15th at 3 in the afternoon with representatives of the Department, so you can provide a full description of the events that took place on June 18th 1996.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Hoping you are well,
Gareth Greengrass,
Department of Mysteries
Ministry of Magic
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August 15th, 1996, 2:30 P.M.
Harry had gotten used to odd wizard concepts at a young age, but it was still quite shocking to find out he was supposed to flush himself down a toilet to reach an official governmental building. How hard it was for wizards to build stairs, he didn’t know.
Feeling sick -from the spinning of his strange transportation method, or perhaps from the realization that he’d just been in contact with toilet water-, Harry walked to the Security office, where he had his wand examined and his visitor pin handed to him.
He nodded at the wizards and witches who greeted him, trying to make his way to his destination without being noticed by too many people. He’d managed to avoid the Daily Prophet journalists for weeks, and he wasn’t going to stop now.
Slowly, he walked over to the Department of Mysteries. The route was so familiar yet so foreign. They hadn’t repaired the destroyed walls and sections. There was barely any solid separation between each room. He’s supposed to be going to the office section. Where is he going? Why is he going there? Why is he going there? The first room that comes into view is the Brain Room. He had been convinced Ron wouldn’t make it out of that room, but he did, and every day Harry thanked the stars for it. The Hall of Prophecy, with all its smoking orbs and maddening voices. The room that had held the cause of his suffering for years. The Time Room, mostly empty, except for the floor, covered in glass and dust. He wished he had a time-turner. Then maybe everything wouldn’t be so complicated. All he could think about was dark corridors, and locked doors, and flashing lights, and glass shards, and voices in his head, and pain, so much pain.
He couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating. Bile rose in his throat. He had to get away. He wouldn’t, couldn’t get away. This is where he died. This is where he died. This is where he died.
He closed his eyes and leaned against a wall. Breathe, breathe, breathe. He slid down the wall and wrapped his arms around his knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not in public, not where anyone could see him, why was the place empty? Breathe in, breathe out. He couldn’t stay there.
He shakily stood up, his hand on the wall. His vision was blurry, his glasses had fallen off his nose. He leaned down, feeling for them. Finally finding them, he put them on and tried to stand. He took a step forward, and felt something round under his foot. He stumbled on it, feeling himself lurch backwards, and quickly reached for something to grab on to, but the cold stone walls were smooth, and he fell on his back. His head hit the hard floor with a loud bang, he felt something shatter under him, and was soon enveloped in a dark cloud of smoke and dust.